tell me your wish
by isawet
Summary: Clint is a bartender, Phil comes into his bar every night.


Phil has a routine.

Technically he gets off work at five. He leaves at seven, after neatening his desk and saving his spreadsheets, three copies for each workbook. Then he walks to the the subway and takes it to the stop three blocks from his apartment.

Two blocks from the apartment is a bar, a quiet one, that plays golf and curling on the television instead of football and baseball. Phil likes to sit at the end of the bar, against the wall, where he can get the bartender's attention but isn't surrounded by people.

Phil likes it there, likes to drink mediocre beer with slices of lime on the rim; he likes to listen to the dull murmur of the conversation, likes to feel the scarred wood under his fingertips.

/

"Hey," the new bartender says, and Phil blinks.

"Good evening," he says politely. He looks down at the drink in front of him. "this isn't what I ordered."

"I know," the bartender says. "This is better, you'll like it."

"There's an umbrella in it," Phil says evenly. "I'd like what I ordered, please."

"Try it," the bartender says. "If you don't like it I'll get you your boring order and comp this one."

Phil takes an even sip. The bartender watches him. "My name's Clint, Clint Barton."

"Coulson," Phil says.

"Coulson what?"

"Coulson," Phil repeats, and sets the glass down. Condensation runs down the sides, little drops around the smudges left by his fingers. "I'd like what I ordered," he says again, and Clint sighs.

"Coming right up." He leaves with the glass, and Phil draws a nail through the circle of water it leaves behind. Someone comes into the bar, banging the door against the wall, and Phil turns at the noise. When he spins back around his usual beer is sitting in front of him, a blue paper umbrella stuck into the rind of the lime.

/

Phil gets out early on Fridays, early enough that he beats the rush at the bar. He finds his usual seat and waits for Clint to finish stacking the freshly washed glasses, still steamy from the industrial dishwasher. Clint wipes his fingerprints off with a flannel.

"Any chance you'll order something new?" he calls down the bar.

"No thank you," Phil says calmly. Clint makes his drink in less than a minute.

"Any chance you'll tell me your real name?" Clint asks, and Phil reaches out to take the drink from his hands.

"Coulson is my real name," Phil says, and sighs a little after his first long sip, pleased.

Clint pretends the piece of counter in front of Phil needs polishing. "No parent is that cruel."

"It's on my birth certificate," Phil says, and takes a deep draw from the glass.

"Cole," Clint guesses, "Coulson Cole."

"No," Phil says, and then because he can't quite help it: "that's terrible."

Clint shrugs at him, leaning against the bar. "After a given name like Coulson anything's possible."

Phil examines the golden liquid in his glass. "No umbrella?" he asks, and feels surprised at his own question. Clint grins at him.

"What colour you want?"

Phil frowns. "Blue," he says, and Clint blows out a sigh.

"No," he says flatly. Phil raises an eyebrow.

"No?"

"No," Clint says. "You need more variety in your life. You get pink."

Phil twirls the toothpick-umbrella between two fingers until he's done with his drink and out the door.

/

"Coulson Tierdan," Clint says on Monday. He'd said _Lisle_ on Saturday, _Iquerdaz_ on Sunday.

"No," Phil says, and then "wait." Clint stops with his hand around Coulson's usual glass. "Surprise me," Phil says, and Clint beams.

"It's like it's my birthday," he says.

"No," Phil says, "mine." Clint does a doubletake.

"No shit? Your drink's on the house, then."

He brings Phil back something bubbly and sweet, pink coloured. Phil takes a measured sip.

"This is lemonade," he says. "fizzy lemonade."

"_Hard_ lemonade," Clint says.

"Pink lemonade," Phil says, and Clint smiles.

"I like pink," he says seriously.

"I can see that." Down the bar, someone calls for a bartender. Clint glances up at them and then away, lingers.

"Do I get your name today?"

"No," Phil says. He smiles.

"Someday," Clint says cheerfully and reaches for Phil's tie. "You've got a little-" he twists his fingers in a quick move and then opens his palm. Phil takes the little paper umbrella from him, his fingers brushing Clint's hand. It's pink.

"See you tomorrow," Phil says. He puts the umbrella in the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

/

Phil comes into the bar and puts his head down on the counter. He rubs his palms against the back of his head, scrubs his nails across his scalp.

"Hey," Clint says. "I missed you earlier." Phil doesn't lift his head up.

"Work," he mutters, and rubs his skin against the cool wood. A hand lands on the back of his head, gentle, and starts to roll pressure into the nape of his neck. Phil sighs, murmurs nonsense. Phil falls asleep to Clint's long fingers massaging the bottom of his neck, the callouses on his fingers scraping against the knobs of his spine.

"Hey," Clint says, shaking him. "Coulson? We're closed."

Phil sits up, blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes. He rubs at the lines on his face from sleeping on the bar. "Sorry," he mumbles, and Clint shrugs.

"Looked like you needed it."

Phil looks around. The bar is dark, and completely empty. He sees one of the workers in the back room duck out, the door jingling. "You let me stay?"

"Sure," Clint says, shrugging on a leather jacket. "I like you." He moves to pass Phil and he grabs him by the strings of his apron. "Oops," Clint says, "I always forget about that thing."

Phil undoes the knots carefully, with the tips of his nails. "You've got callouses on your fingers."

"I like to shoot," Clint says, staring at Phil's hands. Phil tosses the apron onto a nearby stool. "Arrows," he adds, blinking and tearing his gaze away from Phil's knuckles.

"Archery," Phil says. He grabs Clint's hands, feeling brave, and turns them over, running his fingerpads up and down Clint's skin. Here's the callous he gets from notching arrows, there's the one from stringing a bow, over and over.

"Yes," Clint says. "Do you have hobbies?"

"I come here," Phil says, "I-I talk to you."

"Oh," Clint says. He starts to draw away, and Phil tightens his hold on Clint's hands.

"I shoot," he blurts. "Bullets, I have a Glock."

"Glock-17," Clint guesses, and Phil smiles.

"Yes," he says. Clint flips their hands, bends down to look at Phil's fingers. He rubs a knuckle against Phil's trigger finger. He smiles.

"I'm glad you come here," he says. "I'm glad you talk to me."

Phil licks his lips. "Phil," he says, "Phil Coulson." Clint blinks, and Phil watches him, watches the lashes brush his skin.

"Phil," Clint repeats, and then softer, "Phil."

/

Phil has a routine.


End file.
